


Seventeen Steps

by JulzSnape



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Baker Street, Dancing Lessons, Emotional Constipation, Emotional John, Emotional Sherlock, First Kiss, Heavy Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, Infidelity, John's chair, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Palace, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waltzing, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulzSnape/pseuds/JulzSnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mary can’t know that I don’t know how to waltz! She already thinks I’m a bumbling idiot, no need to prove it to her. You can teach me, and when she sees at the wedding that I know what I’m doing, she’ll be properly impressed.”</p><p>“If she thinks a classic waltz will be easier for you, John, I hate to say that she already knows you’re a bumbling idiot.”</p><p> </p><p>John asks Sherlock to teach him how to waltz for his wedding. Sherlock obliges, but as is every other interaction between them, things get a little intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic in the Sherlock fandom! It was inspired by a Tumblr post about Sherlock teaching John to dance.
> 
> As more inspiration, I listened to the songs 'I Found' by Amber Run, and 'All I Want' by Kodaline. They're both VERY appropriate for JohnLock.

Seventeen heavy footed steps tripped quickly up the stairs before John Watson stood panting in the doorway of 221B. Sherlock barely glanced up from his laptop at his former flat mate, knowing John would explain his panicked presence on his own.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to help me.”

“I’m not sure that’s a true statement, John. I could choose to help you, depending on what you’re getting cold feet about.”

John huffed in annoyance as he crossed the flat and sunk down into his chair across from Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock still thought of it as _his_ chair, damn it. Maybe it was time to move the chair out, just like John had.

“I’m not getting cold feet. Mary just kindly informed me a week before the wedding that our first dance is to be a traditional waltz because, and I quote, ‘it’ll be easier for you, I think.’ I have no bloody clue how to waltz!”

Sherlock finally closed his laptop and fixed John with a searching look as he pressed his hands together under his chin. “And you think that I do?”

John snorted. “Of course you do. You’re a public school toff; you must know a classic waltz.”

Sherlock scowled, even though John was right. Yes, he had learned to dance in school, but that’s not why he knew how to waltz nearly twenty years later. “So you would like me to teach you to waltz a week before your wedding. Why me?”

“Who the hell else would I ask? If you’re suggesting Mycroft, you’re off your bloody – ”

Sherlock made an annoyed sound and flapped his hand impatiently. “No, not Mycroft. I should think you would ask the person you’re marrying to teach you, since she’ll be the one you’re dancing with at the wedding.”

Giving Sherlock an incredulous look, John stood to make tea. John always made tea in a crisis. Along with his truly ghastly jumpers, it was his most endearing quality, Sherlock thought.

“Mary can’t know that I don’t know how to waltz! She already thinks I’m a bumbling idiot, no need to prove it to her. You can teach me, and when she sees at the wedding that I know what I’m doing, she’ll be properly impressed.”

“If she thinks a classic waltz will be easier for you, John, I hate to say that she already knows you’re a bumbling idiot.”

Setting a perfectly made cup of tea at Sherlock’s elbow, John gave him that look that the consulting detective could never say no to. _Damn it_.

“Will you help me? Please?”

Sherlock sipped half of his tea before giving a put upon sigh and handing the mug back to John, who grinned beatifically at him.

“Help me move the furniture.”

After shoving the desk back against the window, pushing the coffee table against the sofa, and moving their (his, _not_ John’s!) chairs to sit just in front of the (thankfully unlit) fireplace, they had a fairly decent makeshift dance floor.

Sherlock fiddled with his iPod and speaker and a gentle, solo violin piece began to play. John’s head tilted to the side as he listened, and a small smile spread across his face.

“This is nice. I’m not sure what song we’ll be dancing to at the wedding, but it’s the beat that matters, right?”

Sherlock smirked as he brushed invisible lint from his shirt and stepped closer to his best friend. “I know which song you’ll be dancing to. Remember, I was in charge of that part.” This was, of course, the song they would be dancing to at the wedding. The song Sherlock had written for John. Just John.

John chuckled, fidgeting uncomfortably in front of the taller man. “Sherlock, I feel like you planned the whole damn wedding, so I trust you. Now, what’s first?”

***

An hour later, Sherlock was wishing he had steel toed boots and John had said ‘sorry’ approximately eighty three times. If Mary thought a waltz was going to be easy for John, she was sorely mistaken. How had this man even been in the military? He couldn’t follow instructions for anything!

“No, your left, _left!_ You’re leading, you need to start with your left foot or you’re going to break Mary’s foot. And mine!”

With a huff of frustration, John pulled away from their awkward embrace and stomped over to pause the music. “I keep trying to follow your steps, but they’re opposite of mine!”

“That’s the whole point, John. You can’t lead while following the same steps as your partner. The waltz is essentially a mirror image of each other. You start with your left, I start with my right. Why is that so hard to comprehend?”

“I need to see my steps done, not Mary’s!”

“We can’t both lead,” Sherlock nearly shouted, his frustration finally getting the best of him. John was not as idiotic as most everyone else in the world, but he was completely hopeless at dancing.

John nearly growled as he stabbed the play button on the iPod once more and glared at the detective. “So just show me the steps side by side until I get them, and then I can put them to use and lead you. Please, Sherlock, just humour me.”

“I’m endeavouring to,” Sherlock snapped as he rewound the song back to the beginning. “Ok, stand next to me and just watch me, then. Watch my feet at first, but the rest of me as well. Dancing is not just about footwork. If you only move your feet, you’re going to look like an automaton.”

Sherlock went through the tediously boring steps of the waltz three or four times for John, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. The doctor was concentrating extremely hard on Sherlock’s feet at first, but then his eyes travelled slowly up and watched the rest of Sherlock’s body. He felt John’s gaze on the movement of his hips, how he held his shoulders back, his spine straight, and his arms floating in the air with no partner to hold onto. He felt a tingle zip up his spine as John’s gaze intensified when he was no longer looking at Sherlock’s feet. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“Ok, ok I think I’ve got it. Try again?” John asked as he rewound the song once more and stepped up to Sherlock. He held out one hand and without hesitation, wrapped the other around Sherlock’s waist. The classic waltz didn’t require one to be pressed up against their partner, as such, but the detective made no move to correct his former flat mate.

“All right. Remember, start with your left. And one, two, three…”

John started with his left, finally, but Sherlock noticed that his entire stance had changed. He was more relaxed without looking lazy, his movements more natural as he guided Sherlock around the makeshift dance floor, even executing the turn that had nearly sent them sprawling across the flat the first time John had tried it.

They moved around the sitting room fluidly, no toes stepped on, no stumbling over the steps, in perfect synchronicity for nearly the entirety of the song. Sherlock had explained that a dip at the end was usually added for flair, but was unnecessary. He did express that he thought it might impress Mary more, so he encouraged it, but John hadn’t tried it yet.

Near the end of the song, John had begun to fidget a little nervously. Sherlock gave him a questioning look, and let out a surprised gasp as he was dipped back slowly, clutching tighter to John to make sure the imbecile didn’t drop him unceremoniously.

Sherlock stared up at John for what felt like much too long with his spine curved back. John was staring right back, and only the end of the music seemed to draw them back to reality. John pulled Sherlock back up against his chest before quickly dropping his hand and waist and moving back.

“Er, was that ok? I wasn’t sure when the dip should come in, so I just guessed,” John asked as he rubbed at the back of his neck, a classic nervous gesture of his.

“It was all right, but you need it to flow with the beat of the music too. The dip should start on the beat, fall in between, and then bring her back up on the upbeat.”

John looked utterly confused, and Sherlock sighed. “Ok, let me lead so I can show you. You’re doing the same exact steps, just reversed. You’ll step back with your right as I lead with my left.”

Sherlock changed their grip on each other so that he could lead this time, and the music started over. There were a few stumbles as John got used to doing the steps he had just learned in reverse. Once he got the hang of it, he actually did very well. Maybe John wasn’t such a bad dancer after all. He seemed to be much better when being led by Sherlock, and it felt right.

Sherlock thought maybe he should warn John that the dip was coming, but decided that John needed to feel the natural fluidity of how the dip should be included without any kind of pretence. So, with no warning, Sherlock eased John smoothly down into the dip, following him chest to chest. John let out a startled sound and held on tighter to Sherlock, just as the detective had done to him.

“And this is when you would kiss her,” Sherlock murmured, his voice low and quiet between them.

“Who?” said John, who swallowed nervously.

The music stopped, and Sherlock realized he hadn’t brought John up on the upbeat as instructed, too struck by shock to even remember what was happening. He carefully pulled John back up, his gaze cast downward as John still clutched tightly at him.

“Your wife, John.”

The silence felt suffocating as Sherlock waited for John to quickly snatch away from him, uncomfortable and embarrassed. From the moment Mike Stamford had brought John into Bart’s, every single interaction had been intense between them. There were so many words unspoken, so many things that Sherlock had never admitted and just shoved into a vault in his Mind Palace that was dedicated to John and Sentiment. They seemed to go hand in hand for him.

Sherlock should have known that teaching John how to dance with his future wife would be no less intense. He just hadn’t expected for John to feel it as well.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s eyes finally met John’s, and he knew it was a mistake. He should have pulled away immediately, separated them, and ignored the elephant in the room (the figurative one, this time). There was a distinct longing in the doctor’s eyes, and Sherlock knew that no matter what happened, he would let him. He would let John do whatever he wanted to him, and he felt weak and emotional. He had never let sentiment get to him before John, but it was like there was a crack in his armour, and John had niggled his way in long ago and made a home there, right in Sherlock’s chest, right inside his heart. He felt ill.

John moved his hand away from Sherlock’s waist, and with a pang of regret, Sherlock began to move away. When he felt that same hand on the back of his neck pulling him down, Sherlock gave in. He could deny it no longer, not with John there in front of him, clearly wanting it too. Sod the consequences; this may be his only chance.

The first brush of warm, slightly chapped lips against his own felt like the sweetest, most innocent thing Sherlock had ever felt. It was gentle, chaste, just a simple meeting of lips. It was perfect.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes (when had they closed?) when John pulled away, and so was surprised when lips pressed against his once more, this time more firmly, more insistent. Sherlock sighed as he slowly parted his lips and allowed John to pull his bottom lip between his own, sucking gently. Sherlock wanted to sob with relief. John wanted this, he could feel it. Whether he wanted it for the next five minutes or five years, it didn’t matter. He had to stay in the moment, lest he shatter the illusion.

John’s tongue probing at his own made him groan involuntarily, and he was sure it would snap the soldier out of this haze and back to reality. To his surprise the groan seemed to encourage John more, and suddenly there was a hand in his hair, gently angling his jaw to deepen the kiss. He obliged, tilting his head, ducking further down to meet John’s searching lips and tongue. He was rewarded with an answering groan, and Sherlock felt arousal rush through him like a wave of molten lava.

There was nothing chaste about the kiss now, nothing innocent, though it still felt sweet. At some point, Sherlock had wrapped both of his arms around John’s waist and he used this advantage to pull John closer so that there was no space between them at all. Chest, hips, knees all pressed together as strong, sturdy hands continued to thread through Sherlock’s curls.

After what felt like hours, John finally gentled the kiss, going back to chaste brushes of lips, like they were kissing in reverse. Sherlock could feel that this was it; this was the end of the fantasy. As John finally pulled his lips away, with their arms still wrapped around each other, his words shattered any hope Sherlock had left.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the obvious regret in John’s eyes as they slowly pulled away from each other.

“I am too.”

There was no goodbye, no explanations or excuses. John slipped his jacket on and stopped in the doorway, his back to Sherlock. There was a moment where Sherlock was almost convinced that the army doctor was going to turn around, say something to fix this horrible, gaping wound in his chest where John used to live.

There was a shuddering sigh, and then seventeen thundering footsteps down the stairs, and a gentle click of the door closing.

Sherlock took up his violin and instead of mimicking the horrible screeching noises that were screaming in his head, he played something gentle, sturdy, beautiful – something just like John.

He tried his best to ignore the tears splashing onto the polished surface of his beloved Strad, and played on.


	2. I Found Love Where it Wasn’t Supposed to Be

It was two days before the big day. Mary had dropped off Sherlock’s tux the day before, giving him an excited little hug before she left. Sherlock had smiled as well as he could, feeling the shreds of his torn up heart aching more and more with each day.

After making a few adjustments to the violin piece Sherlock had written for John, he transposed the sheet music onto a new ledger so that it no longer said ‘John’s song’ at the top. It was just called Wedding Waltz now. He prepared an envelope to put the sheet music into after he played it at the reception so that he could gift it to the bride and groom, and he felt as though he couldn’t breathe while writing ‘To Mr. and Mrs. Watson.’

There was nothing left to do but wait. He had written his best man speech, or as close to a written speech as Sherlock ever got. He knew what he was going to say. Sitting in his chair, staring across at the empty space that once was the home of John’s chair, Sherlock lost himself in memory.

He would never forget the feeling of John’s arms around him, of being led around the flat in a near perfect waltz. He would never forget the way John had looked at him when he dipped Sherlock back, or the way it felt to have John clutch at him almost desperately as he had dipped the doctor back. He would always remember that John, dear oblivious, frustratingly beautiful John had forgotten about Mary as Sherlock looked down into his eyes.

And he would certainly never forget the kiss. After years of longing, hoping, waiting, severe disappointment and mourning as Sherlock helped plan John’s wedding to someone else, Sherlock finally got his kiss. It was everything he had dreamed and more. He never thought it would happen. Sherlock had never really _wanted_ to kiss anyone before, not until John, and then it was a near constant battle to stop himself from doing so.

John broke every rule Sherlock had, made him feel things no one else ever could. He was not himself with John, and that made Sherlock wonder who he even really was anymore. He didn’t want to be who he was without John, but it was too late. _He_ was too late.

Two years had been far too long to expect anyone to wait, especially someone who had no idea that Sherlock had been hoping he’d wait. He’d had a plan, damn it. Hiding, fighting, killing, barely surviving torture, and the entire two years Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty’s network, he was devising his plan to finally tell John how he felt. He knew after John’s frequent and loud outbursts about not being gay that his feelings may not be welcomed, but Sherlock was tired of lying, of hiding.

John had changed everything the day he stepped into Bart’s lab, had turned Sherlock’s world upside down. Certainties he had always lived by were obliterated as Sherlock realised very quickly that John was different, and the rules just didn’t apply to him. Every barrier, every safeguard he had ever put around his heart to lock out sentiment was completely blow away by the short army doctor, and it scared the hell out of Sherlock.

Instead of trying to deal with all of these new, terrifying emotions, Sherlock had gone deep into his Mind Palace, built a vault, and shoved everything in. He could not let his feelings for John ruin the only true friendship he’d ever had. If pretending he wasn’t in love with John Watson kept the doctor around, then that’s what Sherlock had to do.

That day on the roof had changed it all once more. John was in danger, and so was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but honestly that had been overkill on Moriarty’s part. Jim had promised him that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock while John was strapped in a Semtex vest, and the significance of that was not lost on the consulting detective.

Moriarty knew, and when he’d planned his next move, he honestly had only needed to threaten John, and Sherlock would have jumped. He adored Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had saved his life more than once, but if anything had happened to John – well, Sherlock would have jumped anyway.

When discussing contingency plans with Mycroft, Sherlock had fought hard to make sure John was going to be in on most of the plans. He couldn’t bear to lie to John, but he knew a certain level of deceit was necessary to put some of the plans into effect. There were some plans that required John to not be included at all, and Sherlock had tried to avoid them as much as he could. The problem was that he would have no idea which plan he’d need until he was on the roof and Moriarty made his move. Of course the heartless bastard had made it so that the plan Sherlock hated the most, the one that would break John, was the plan they had to use. Lazarus was go, and Sherlock hated himself.

He had begged Mycroft to make it possible to contact John, or at least let the man know he was actually alive, but it just wasn’t safe, and John’s safety was top priority. Listening to John talk to his headstone, hearing the utter anguish in his tearful voice had left Sherlock split open and seething with self-hatred and guilt, but there was nothing he could do. John would never truly be safe until Moriarty’s network had been neutralized, and as much as it killed him, Sherlock had to turn his focus onto his mission instead.

A few updates from Mycroft about John’s condition, how he was coping and fairing ( _‘not well at all, little brother’_ ), and Sherlock couldn’t do it anymore. He instructed his brother to still keep watching over John, but unless the man was seriously injured or in extreme danger, Sherlock didn’t want to know anymore. It was too much, too painful and there was nothing Sherlock could do but try to move through Moriarty’s web as quickly as he could.

Of course, because he no longer received updates about John, he’d had no idea about Mary until Mycroft had taken him back to London and put him back together again after his torture in Siberia. Looking through the files that Anthea had handed to him, Sherlock felt his excitement at finally getting to see John again turn to ash.

John had moved out of Baker Street, had moved on completely. There was a copy of a receipt for a lovely, modest engagement ring, and Sherlock felt the bile rise up in his throat. He couldn’t let his brother know, so he locked it all in the vault and pretended he wasn’t dying on the inside.

He was too late. He should have said something during that final call with John, but he’d been trying so hard to make John hate him, to try to spare him from the grief of Sherlock’s suicide by replacing it with anger. He should have known that John, the man who had killed someone for him on only the second day of knowing each other, would never believe that Sherlock was a fraud and would stay faithfully loyal, even in death.

After the kiss, though, John had to know. There was no way Sherlock’s feelings had not been screaming loudly at the doctor, and John had simply apologized and walked away. He had chosen Mary, again, and Sherlock made sure the vault was locked down tight. He had to make sure that every single emotion from that night was gone before he could even fathom attending the wedding, let alone being the best man. He would have simply deleted the memory, but Sherlock never deleted John, and he could not bring himself to delete the only kiss he would ever share with the only person he had ever loved.

Sherlock had been lost in thought for a few hours before the knock came. He’d been so deep in his Mind Palace that he hadn’t heard the footsteps on the stairs, and so he wasn’t sure who could be knocking. Checking the clock and seeing that it was nearly midnight left very few possibilities, and Sherlock took a deep breath before standing and answering the door.

John was soaked through, his coat dripping and his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain that Sherlock had not even noticed pounding against the windows. They had not seen each other since the night of the dancing lessons, and Sherlock felt his stomach churn. Why was John here so late, sopping wet, and looking as though someone had killed his dog?

“Sorry to stop by so late, but I figured you wouldn’t mind since you never actually sleep like a normal human being.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that John’s words inspired and stepped back to let his former flatmate in. He watched as the doctor peeled off his wet coat and hung it on the back of the door, and then toed his boots off, which were similarly soaked through. His socks went next, and Sherlock realised that John did not intend for this to be a short visit. He felt a niggling of hope rise in his chest, and shot it down immediately, shoving it into the vault and locking it firmly.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your very moist company, John, but why _are_ you here so late?”

John took a deep breath before turning toward his chair. His chair that was no longer across from Sherlock’s. Sherlock had lugged the red arm chair up the stairs into John’s room – the spare room – the day after the kiss. He just couldn’t stand to see the reminder of what he had lost every single day, staring back at him as he settled into his own dilapidated leather chair.

John blinked rapidly, just staring at the spot where his chair used to be, and Sherlock felt the air around them grow tense.

“So that’s how it is, then?”

“It was blocking my view of the kitchen.”

John had turned to stare out the window, Sherlock still standing beside the door, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. He would not feel guilty about this. John had no right to be upset about Sherlock moving his chair when John had left first.

“Right, that’s definitely it. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with you kissing me the other night.”

Sherlock bristled as he moved further into the sitting room, but still not very close to John. “Excuse me, but I seem to remember _you_ kissing _me_. Don’t twist it around because you feel guilty, John. Your moral dilemma is your own; I have no qualms about what really happened,” Sherlock snapped.

John still hadn’t turned to face him, and had moved closer to the window. He looked down at Sherlock’s music stand where the two versions of John’s song were sitting – one with the real title, and one with the fake title that Sherlock was rewriting for the wedding.

“You’re right, I did kiss you. But you kissed me back, Sherlock. Why did you kiss me back?” John asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the rain.

Before Sherlock could even begin to think of what to say, the vault exploded open, and there was little he could do to stop the flood of want, regret, guilt, pain, longing, and love – _so much love_ – from pouring out in waves. It flooded every room of his Mind Palace, drowned all reasoning and logic and lodged in his throat until his eyes burned.

“For God’s sake, I know you’re not _that_ stupid. Deduce it! You’ve watched me often enough. Go on; tell me why I kissed you back. Don’t strain yourself, now! Christ, John, I really thought you weren’t as big of an idiot as the rest of the world, but clearly I was wrong. I guess I’ve always been wrong about you.”

“Stop it, just stop!” John ground out through clenched teeth as he finally turned around to face Sherlock. His eyes were red rimmed and Sherlock could see his clenched fists shaking at his sides.

“Just stop, Sherlock, ok? I get it, I _know_ , but that doesn’t tell me how the hell I’m supposed to feel! What am I supposed to do?”

Sherlock could not meet John’s eyes as he wrapped his arms protectively around himself, trying to shield himself from this conversation in any way possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. John wasn’t supposed to bring it up ever again. It was supposed to be locked away and forgotten about, like John’s chair upstairs. Only, John had noticed that too, hadn’t he?

“I cannot tell you how to feel, or what to do. I’m a little biased, so my advice is probably not the best to ask. If you’re only here to – to mock me or make me feel any worse than I already do, then you can leave. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I _can_ tell how you’re allowed to treat me, and bursting into my flat in the middle of the night, soaking wet and making me feel guilty for trying to move on is _not ok_.”

There was a long silence, only broken by the sounds of distant thunder and the steady pounding of rain against the sitting room window. Sherlock steeled himself and finally looked up at his best friend, and felt his stomach drop.

John’s eyes were full of tears as he brushed at the wetness with an annoyed swipe of his palm across his cheeks. “I know. I know I fucked up, Sherlock, but I don’t know what to _do_. I’ve been trying so hard to figure out what it meant that I could just waltz with you for a few hours, and then you look at me and I completely forget my fiancé even exists. And then I was a fucking idiot and I just followed my instincts and I kissed you and that was it. That was the final straw and I _knew_ , Sherlock.”

“You knew what?”

John took a shuddering breath as he stared up at the ceiling, as if looking up would stop the tears streaming from his eyes. “That I had made the wrong choice. But you were gone for _two years_ , and once you were back and I had tried to forgive you, it was already too late. I’ve been telling myself since the day you came back that I had made the right choice because you would never want me the way I wanted you, and I could have that with Mary.

“And now…fuck, Sherlock, now that I know I could have that with you instead, how the hell am I supposed to go back to Mary and just pretend it never happened? How am I supposed to marry the wrong person and be ok with it for the rest of my life?”

Sherlock could feel that he was shaking now, and the burning in his eyes was too much to hold back. They were both so _stupid_. Sherlock had kept his feelings from John so that his friend could be happy, could finally marry a woman he loved and be free of Sherlock’s antics, and the whole time, John had been feeling the same way.

“We’re both complete idiots,” Sherlock croaked, and he couldn’t help his sad grin as a startled chuckle burst forth from John, who scrubbed at his face tiredly.

“That’s an understatement.”

“How long?”

John hesitated, and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He was not about to admit to John that he had loved him from their very first case together if John wasn’t honest with him in return.

“Sherlock, I killed someone to save you from poisoning yourself when we’d known each other less than two days. How long do you think?”

Sherlock felt the feelings lodged in his throat choke him more as he turned away from the man he loved, suppressing a sob as he covered his mouth to stop the horrible cry of grief that wanted to burst out of his chest.

They had wasted so much time being emotionally constipated morons, and Sherlock was still _too late_. It was like seeing the only drop of water in a barren desert dry up just before you reached it. They’d had eighteen months together before The Fall, and Sherlock had not once ever considered that John felt the same. He was so stupid.

“Stop blaming yourself; it’s my fault too.”

“Reading minds is my job,” Sherlock whispered, and he smiled at John’s answering laughter. He still hadn’t turned around, and when he felt arms wrap around him from behind, Sherlock let himself relax into the embrace even though he knew he shouldn’t.

“So what do we do, Sherlock?” John murmured, his cheek pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder from behind as he held the detective against his chest.

“It’s not my decision to make, John. I’m not the one getting married in thirty six hours.”

John sighed gustily as he pulled Sherlock closer. “I know. But…but if I wasn’t, what would happen?”

Sherlock grasped John’s arms and loosened them enough so that he could turn around in his embrace. Now facing the doctor, Sherlock could not possibly ever let this go again. It would break him. “Well, you would have to help me move your chair back downstairs, as I nearly pulled every muscle in my back dragging it up there.”

John tilted Sherlock’s head down so that their foreheads rested together, a smirk pulling at his lips as he played with the curls at the base of the detective’s neck. “It’s ok, I won’t need my room; we have yours.”

Sherlock smiled, his arms tightening around his best friend and pulling them closer so that no space was between them, just like during their first kiss. “No, but you will need your chair,” and then Sherlock closed the remaining space and kissed John again.

“Don’t marry her. Please, John. I know you can’t just move back in and have us live happily ever after, but please don’t.”

“I won’t – I _can’t_. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you. I need to figure things out. Sherlock, I love you, I do, but you have to understand that I was perfectly content to marry her less than a week ago because I didn’t think this was possible. I love Mary too.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath as he gripped John’s upper arms and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “I know. And I know I don’t even deserve the consideration you’re giving me, but if you marry her, John…I don’t know that I could bear it.”

John stepped away from Sherlock, though they were still touching, their arms not quite releasing each other completely. The army doctor looked as exhausted as Sherlock felt. “Christ, why couldn’t we have figured this out sooner? Damn it, you helped plan the damn wedding, and the whole time –”

“It killed me. But you were so happy, and that’s all I wanted. I couldn’t take that from you, not after all I put you through when I…when I jumped. I know I can be a selfish bastard, but not when it comes to you.”

Sherlock felt the door of the vault swinging in the flood waters, useless and gaping open, like his heart. He felt raw and exposed in a way he had never allowed himself to be before, and once again he realized that John had changed him completely.

John shook his head, fixing Sherlock with an incredulous look. “You jumped _for_ me. You spent years hunting down Moriarty’s network, being tortured, to keep _me_ safe. I know I’ve been angry with you for not telling me you were alive, but I understand why you had to do it. It’s going to take me quite some time to completely heal from that. Now that you know how I feel, think again about how I felt after you jumped.”

Sherlock tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, thinking about how much he had missed his blogger the two years that he was gone. But he knew John was alive the entire time – John thought he was dead. He can’t even imagine.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could go back and do things differently and still be able to keep you safe, but I was out of time and viable options. I’ll never regret anything more.”

“I know. I know, love. That’s not even what this about anymore. I just – I’m going to need some time. I need to talk to Mary. We have to – we have to tell everyone the wedding is off. I’m going to need some space at first, all right? But Sherlock, listen to me: I am not pushing you away, I’m not cutting you out, and I’m damn sure not giving this – whatever this is – up. Ok?” John asked, his hand brushing gently against Sherlock’s cheek in a tentative gesture, like he was afraid he was going to break the detective.

“Ok,” said Sherlock. He would do whatever it took to keep John, to get him back and bring him home again. If he had to wait for John to figure things out, he would wait. He’d waited this long.

Their mouths met in a gentle kiss, just a brush of lips. Sherlock felt John thread his fingers through his curls once more, and sighed when John deepened the kiss and pulled him closer. His own hands were clutching at John’s waist, not daring to let the man go before he absolutely had to. Who knew how long it would be before they would have this again, if at all? John said he still loved Mary – what if, in the end, he chose her after all? Sherlock couldn’t even let himself think about it; instead he focused all of his attention on pushing every bit of sentiment that had been overwhelming him into the kiss.

“John. If…you have to choose, and it’s not going to be me, then don’t ruin your relationship with Mary. If you think for even one second that you still want to marry her, do it. I can’t bear to be the reason you lose her if it’s not me you want,” Sherlock implored. He could not handle it if John risked his happiness on a chance with him. Sherlock wasn’t really relationship material, it wasn’t exactly his area, but he was willing to try for John.

John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips before pulling away, and moving toward the door this time. He slipped on his boots and pocketed his sopping wet socks before shrugging into his jacket. “It’s not a question of wanting you, Sherlock, because I definitely do. I just have to try to sort this with as much tact as possible. I love Mary, but…there’s no question, ok? I was going to ask to stay tonight, but I don’t think that’s wise after all. I need to talk to Mary as soon as possible. I’ll text you.”

Sherlock crossed the sitting room and pulled John close by the collar of his jacket, stealing one more kiss. If this was the last time he would kiss John for a long while, he wanted to have as many kisses to remember as possible.

“Goodnight, John.”

John’s lopsided grin as he zipped up his jacket inspired Sherlock’s own smile. The doctor stood on tip toes to kiss Sherlock one more time before bounding down the seventeen steps leading up to 221B.

Sherlock couldn’t wait to hear his blogger’s footsteps coming home once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I didn’t expect to write anymore for this story, but I received a comment that inspired me to continue it, and it looks like I’m still not done. I can’t guarantee any kind of posting schedule for regular updates, but I’ll try to update as soon as my muse decides I can write again. Thanks for all of your kind words, and please let me know what you think of part two!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! I plan to write more JohnLock in the future. Any constructive criticism or advice about characterization or anything else is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


End file.
